


Pressed Flowers

by anaraine



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 10:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10717425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anaraine/pseuds/anaraine
Summary: Sabé and Dormé discuss their thoughts on the final years of Queen Amidala's reign.





	Pressed Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hydianway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydianway/gifts).



> This might need an "everybody loves Padmé" tag, oops. I did not quite get to the hair-styling portion of this fic, but let it be known that Sabé and Dormé were nearly late for dinner. (I have futzed with canon as per usual, and their current ages have arbitrarily settled on 21 and 23 - Sabé is the same age as Padmé, give or take a few months, and Dormé is older than them both.)

There are more than a hundred private gardens within the walls of the palace, little spots of greenery hidden between grand rooms that allow one to sit and relax amongst trees and flowers without ever setting foot outside. They are tended to by a veritable army of gardeners, men and women who could coax a nuucri flower to bloom just as easily as a field of millaflowers.

Dormé does not seek out the gardens with the rarest of plants - while beautiful, they do not contain that which she is looking for: a moment of peace, away from the other denizens that live within the palace walls. Her favorite by far is a small enclosure off the west wing, thick panes of clari-crystalline allowing natural light to fall upon the lone zaela tree and the thick carpet of millaflowers that grows around it. The concentration of millaflowers is enough that the entire room is filled with their sweet scent, a natural relaxant, and it a perfect place to tease out an hour or so of quiet reading from a paper and leather book instead of a datapad.

Which is why it is such a surprise when Sabé walks through the door, hair pinned high on her head like a handmaiden on duty, but wearing the rather standard training robes instead of the day's outfit and cloak of deep green.

"Sabé?" Dormé asks, drawing her legs up under her in preparation to stand. "I thought you were spending the afternoon with Cordé?"

Sabé smiles, a wide thing that brightens her face. She steps along the path that Dormé has carved through the garden over years of use, and sits carelessly, the heavy fabric of her clothes crushing several nearby flowers.

"I was," she agrees, "And I did. It went very well. I almost wish that we had managed to recruit her at the beginning of Her Majesty's second term."

"There's not much call for a decoy now, is it?"

"No, but it never hurts to be prepared."

This, Dormé knows well. Queen Amidala's first term had been... tumultuous, to say the least. Her reign had nearly begun with the Invasion of Naboo, and it set the tone for many of her first encounters with other planets and systems. Their Queen had won her election by setting herself as a very traditional ruler - and then _proved_ her sincerity, not even six months later.

Dormé had not been present in the Royal household in those early years - she had been asked later to join the Queen's retinue. But that does not mean she loves her Queen any less than those who have been there longer, or that she is not privy to the trouble that plagued her Queen like a badly behaved blarth.

Still. "There are less than two years until Queen Amidala will descend from the throne."

Sabé snorts with enough force to toss her head back. "All the more reason. I've grown too tall to take Her place in anything beyond sitting at a holo. Cordé is closer to the Queen's height and size, and she's not bad at imitating Her gait." She paused, a pensive look to her face. "It's the public speaking that Cordé has a problem with - and the only thing that will help that is time. She can be firm if she needs to be, but she's still prefers to fade into the background. Shy."

"You say that as if we aren't supposed to fade into the background," Dormé comments, amusement licking at her voice.

"You know what I mean."

"I do," Dormé allows, leaving her book open on her lap as she reaches over to tangle her fingers with Sabé's.

Sabé smiles at her, but it's distracted. Dormé does not like the furrow in her brow, or the way her eyes have pinched at the corners.

"Share your worries with me," Dormé prompts, lowering her voice to a more intimate register. "Let me halve your burden."

It takes a long moment before Sabé speaks, and even then it is little more than a whisper.

"I have heard rumor that there are those who would encourage Queen Amidala to sit on the throne for a third term."

It is somewhat galling that Dormé can feel her own brow drawing together. "She would never—"

Sabé nods sharply. "I agree. But I don't think we can say that is common knowledge. Queen Amidala is a very traditional Queen. It is not unheard of for a Queen to sit for more than two terms."

Dormé splutters. "It has been for the past three centuries!"

Sabé shrugs. "There are those who would argue that it's time to return to a proper dynasty. Queen Amidala has been good to Naboo, and her popularity has grown to heights similar to Queen Yram."

"Sabé. You know Padmé would never. It is _for_ her people that she would step down and allow a new Queen to rise."

"I know that. You know that. All of her handmaidens know that, or I'm a gooberfish. But it doesn't matter what we know. It's what her opponents _think_."

Dormé is beginning to see Sabé's concern. "Will you be spending more time with Cordé, then?" It is somewhat of a pity, but the needs of their Queen will always come before their own. No matter how Padmé protests.

"I— Yes. If we can schedule it. It is far easier for me to dress as Queen Amidala for her to imitate, that it is to insert Cordé into the throne room for the express purposes of watching instead of guarding. I just wish that—"

"Wishes are for the stars. We are on Naboo, and there is nothing more you could've done, _ryoo_. We are in service to the Queen, and we must think of what we _can_ do, not—"

"—not what we can't," Sabé finishes the chant with a sigh.

It is moments like this that make Dormé feel old. Sabé has been with Her Majesty from the age of 14. Dormé joined the Queen's retinue nearly three years later, at the age of 20. She had been studying for the exit exams for the Legislative Youth Program when Captain Panaka approached her with a request for her service, and Dormé had given it gladly. It has been an honor and a pleasure to serve Queen Amidala, but when she steps down, Dormé will have both a name to reclaim and a life to start.

But Sabé has been entrenched in the Queen's household for nearly seven years, and Dormé is not so certain that she has a plan for _after_. And it would be... unkind, she thinks, to bring it up now when there are so many other worries cluttering Sabé's mind.

The woman in question shakes her head and sidles closer, her hip pressing in to Dormé's as she looks down at the open book on her lap.

"What are you reading?" Sabé asks, and her question is the kind of falsely bright that feels like sandpaper on the skin.

"A book of poetry," she says, dryly. If Sabé is trying to change the subject, she picked a bad conversation starter. "Written by the Handmaiden Lecham, of Queen Yram."

Dormé takes the dirty look Sabé shoots her as her due.

"It is very lovely," Dormé defends, for she has been enjoying the thoughts of Lecham, long forgotten by history. "Subtle and sweet. It is probably a more accurate record of Queen Yram's reign than anything else in the Royal Library, provided you have a framework of what she's discussing, but it is also very obvious that Lecham is in love with the lady she swore to protect."

Sabé's hum of acknowledgment is a weak thing, absently given and an indicator that her thoughts have gone elsewhere.

"I was thinking that perhaps one of us should do something similar," Dormé says slyly.

That does the trick. It is not kind, the way that Dormé relishes how Sabé freezes, watching as every muscle in her body tenses, but at least she knows Sabé is listening.

"No," she says at last. "No. That's too private. I can't believe—"

Dormé tucks her fingers into the curve of Sabé's own, drawing her hand up to press a slow kiss to each knuckle. The hitch in Sabé's breath is extremely gratifying.

"Stories will be told no matter what you would prefer, _ryoo_ ," she says between kisses. "Shouldn't we make sure only the best are made about our Queen?"

Sabé wriggles her fingers in Dormé's gentle hold, but does not remove her hand. "There are plenty of stories already told about our Queen. Stories of valor and bravery and—"

"Yes," Dormé agrees, because there are. They certainly paint the Queen in a flattering light - far more so than her recent predecessors. "But what about stories from the ones who love her?"

Sabé uses her free hand to fidget, fingers worrying at the stems of the millaflowers that surround them. She looks almost surprised when her absent motions snap one free from the ground, the scent of the freshly-picked flower much more powerful than the general perfume of those still growing in the earth.

"No," Sabé says finally. "That's. No. That's too private."

"Well," Dormé says, and while she might be a little disappointed, she is not really surprised. "If that is your decision."

Sabé looks like she has found some firmer ground to stand on. "Yes. Yes it is." She twists the stem of her plucked millaflower around her fingers for a moment, before passing it to Dormé.

It is a lovely specimen, bright red and fragrant. Dormé carefully marks her place with the flower, pressing it between the pages and folding her book closed. A glance at her chrono tells her that it is just over the hour she had allocated into her schedule, and that it is time to return to the Queen's suite to begin dressing for dinner.

"You're a mess," Sabé says critically, looking Dormé up and down as she stands.

"No more than you are," Dormé replies cheerfully. "You've crushed nearly a dozen millaflowers under the folds of your outfit and it's going to smell when you finally stand up."

Sabé makes a face. "At least I'm only wearing training clothes."

Dormé laughs, and reaches out to Sabé, who takes her offered hand and stands. The smell that billows out from her skirts is lovely - but _powerful_.

Sabé wrinkles her nose. "Alright. I might need a shower. I don't need to attend dinner smelling like this."

"I'll race you back to the east wing," Dormé says, and then takes off without further warning.

Sabé isn't far behind. "First one there gets to do the other's hair!"


End file.
